Surcease of Sorrow
by ConcertiGrossi
Summary: In the throes of grief, what lengths would someone go to save their dearest friend? When a beloved's life hangs in the balance, what would it take to cut the thread? (SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 11: THE MAGICAL PLACE)


THIS IS NOT A HAPPY FIC. BE WARNED. It's a reaction to the most recent "Agents of SHIELD" episode, "The Magical Place." There are spoilers here, and if you've seen the episode you know why I'm warning for dark. There is no happy ending here.

But, as always, I thank my fabulous beta readers, gth694e, Rex Luscus, IshyMaria, and Jep.

'Ware the spoilers.

* * *

The man stood at the pane of glass and watched the torture of his best friend.

Nick Fury held this pose unflinchingly while he listened to the agonized screams of his all-but-brother on the table below, looking impassively on as Phil Coulson begged for death, for release from pain. Were he able to endure the agony for him, to go through this ordeal in his place, Fury would gratefully do so.

But he could not. And that inability meant he would not leave the man's side.

There is no force in the world more ruthless than love. Fear abates; anger recedes; hatred grows bored; only Love stands stalwart against all comers. It is the unfaltering guardian, the unceasing defender, capable of anything at all in the name of the beloved's greater good.

"Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP! I'll do ANYTHING…"

Fury always said that there was nothing on Earth that could make Phil Coulson crack. Funny thing: he was still sort of right about that.

There came the sound of a commotion in the hallway. Fury turned his head, guiltily glad for the distraction. The door slammed open, and Clint Barton ran in.

_Well, fuck._

Barton took in the scene and blanched.

"But he was dead!" said Barton, his eyes as wide as saucers, the horror growing on his face as he watch the neural regenerators pick at Coulson's brain.

"And now he's not," replied Fury.

Coulson howled again on the table. "I can't! No more, please! I'm begging you!"

"What the fuck are you doing to him!?"

"Making him better," said Fury.

"I WANT TO DIE. LET ME DIE. LET ME GO! PLEASE!" came the cry from the operating room.

Barton leapt forward and took a swing at Fury, who dodged and swung his own punch in return. He connected solidly with Barton's jaw, hard enough to bruise flesh but not hard enough to break bone. Barton stumbled back and took stance for another attack when several guards ran in from the hallway. Fury waved them away.

"Back off, all of you!"

Hawkeye glowered at the guards but thought better of trying again, as he wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. Fury pulled himself to his full height and straightened his coat.

"He was your best friend, you bastard! How could you do this to him!?" Barton's words struck the blow that his fist had not. Fury flinched. He met Barton's eyes, then beckoned.

"Come here, Barton, let me show you something."

"We don't have _time_ for this, asshole! He's down there suffering! Can't you fucking hear him!?" yelled Hawkeye.

"Shut up and listen to me. " Fury sounded so careworn and tired, so un-Fury-like, that Barton actually did. With hunched shoulders and bowed head, Fury tapped a plastic box on the wall. "That's the emergency override. It'll crash the power to the operating room. It'll make it stop." He flipped up the cover, exposing a big, red button.

An anguished, wordless screech came over the speakers. Both men cringed.

"Go ahead, Barton. Press it. You won't get in trouble, and we'll forget this ever happened." Fury leaned in and spoke quietly in Barton's ear. "But he'll really and truly be dead, and there will be no bringing him back."

Hawkeye took two steps forward and held out his hand to push the button.

And stopped.

He started forward again, and once again, he stopped.

His breath started to come in gasps and sweat beaded his brow. Another horrible, inhuman wail echoed through the room.

"LET ME DIE! Please, Dear God, let me die!"

Barton's face crumpled, and he fell to his knees. He scrambled over to the nearest desk and vomited into the trashcan. Fury watched him impassively and dropped the plastic cover back over the power switch.

"You are a sick, sadistic _fucker,"_ spat Barton, his face red and blotchy with tears.

Fury wiped his face with his hand and sighed wearily. "You're right, Clint. I am. Now stay here or get out, but I've got no energy for this shit."

He pointedly turned his back on Barton and resumed his post, listening once more to the torment of the man he had damned. After a time, a familiar figure took up watch beside him.

Two men stood at the pane of glass and watched the torture of their best friend.

* * *

The title is from Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven":

_Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,_  
_And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor._  
_Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow_  
_From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -_  
_For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -_  
_Nameless here for evermore._


End file.
